


the same moonlight waters

by modricistas (mincolla)



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Coming Out, Fluff, Internalized Homophobia, Kinda?, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-01
Updated: 2020-04-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:01:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23363623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mincolla/pseuds/modricistas
Summary: and then paulo gazzaniga happens.
Relationships: Juan Foyth/Paulo Gazzaniga
Comments: 15
Kudos: 15





	the same moonlight waters

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [A Problem That You'll Understand](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22679953) by [amethystfox](https://archiveofourown.org/users/amethystfox/pseuds/amethystfox). 



> general warnings: internalized homophobia, implied family homophobia, some angst, generally bad writing
> 
> title from ghost love score by nightwish (they r weirdly good???) 
> 
> this started as cute fluffy fic and devolved into just the most angsty angst to ever angst, because im an edgy bitch. so , yeah , read the 'inspired by' fic bc its wayyy better tbh

Juan’s always known two things; football and family.

On weeknights, he spends hours and hours practicing in the backyard with his older brothers. On Saturdays, he does his schoolwork and helps his mother cook. Sundays, they go to church. Rinse and repeat, week after week. As he gets older, the practices turn to training with a local youth team, Saturdays are spent shuffling him from town to town to play matches against other teams of equally tiny, baby deer-legged children. Sundays, they still go to church, but his mom insists that he has to start wearing dress pants instead of shorts. And then it changes again. The local youth team turns into the youth academy at a first division club - Estudiantes de La Plata - and the Saturday games get a bit longer, a bit rougher, suddenly there’s boys who are bigger, they’re certainly meaner, they’re just as hungry for the game as he is. It’s exhilarating, sharing the pitch with twenty one other people who care just as much as he does about the game, about football, even if nearly half of them are the ‘enemy’. 

Football changes. Football always changes, players come and go, coaches come and go, hell, clubs come and go and Juan finds himself moving up and up, faster and faster. But family never changes.

Sundays are for church, pressed pants and shirts and hurrying out the door so they can sit up front, his mother clasping her rosary especially tight when one of his little siblings does something naughty during the service. For some reason, his father insists on starching their collars until they’re standing straight up, tips not even wilting until long after the service is done and they’re all crammed in the car, going home to hot food and cold drinks. Sometimes they stay a little later, so Juan’s mother can socialize with the church ladies in their bright pastel dresses and his father can drink beer with the other men and laugh and smoke cigars. His older siblings dash off with their friends, going to the mall or the movies, and his little siblings run around the yard next to the church, playing tag. Sometimes they’ll want a kickabout and Juan will jump in and play keeper even though he’s terrible at it and hates playing it. 

One day, Juan gets home from training and his older brother isn’t at dinner. His mother explains he’s on a date with a girl from their church. Her name is Theresa. Juan vaguely remembers seeing her in the group of older kids, always wearing lipstick that his mother said was too dark, heels that were too high, skirts that were too short, shirts that were too low, hoop earrings that were too big… His mother called her fast, said she was trouble, always looking for attention. Juan had once asked from who? and his mother laughed, told him girls like Theresa were always on the hunt for the attention of men, but really only got the attention of boys. Juan didn’t quite understand, then. Sure, Theresa was pretty, with her tan and shiny, smooth hair, but she didn’t really seem all that remarkable. 

Good, his mother had said. Girls like her are not worth your time, Juanito. You deserve a girl with self respect. A good, Catholic girl. Then, he had shrugged it off and went out to kick a ball around and wait for one of his little sisters to join him. 

Years go by, and Juan hardly notices. Every day blurs into one long, continuous stretch of football, football, football, broken up by church on Sundays and occasionally having a day off to help his mother around the house or watch more football on TV with his father and brothers. As soon as a new year starts, it ends, like the rug of time is yanked out from under his feet and he gets up just in time for the rug to be pulled away again. 

In November of 2016, under advice from one of his coaches at Estudiantes, they get a new landline in the house. Juan’s father puts it on the counter top, near the dinner table. In January of 2017, it rings for the very first time. His mother’s about to bless the food before they eat dinner when it rings, and his father shoots up to get it, picks it up and five minutes later, he’s cheering like someone’s just told him Messi is coming to dinner. 

“ _What happened?_ ” Juan’s little sister asks.

His father turns to him, grinning. “ _Estudiantes want you to sign a professional contract!_ ” 

And then chaos breaks. Everyone starts cheering, Juan’s brothers have to be dissuaded twice by his mother to not pick him up and start carrying him around, lest he be injured and end his career preemptively. 

Later that night, after dinner’s been eaten and the plates cleared, his mother comes up to his room. “ _I am so proud of you, Juanito. You have always had something special in you._ ” 

Juan falls asleep dreaming of winning the Superliga.

Two months later, he makes his debut for Etudiantes. They win, one-nil, against Patronato de Paraná, and in the car ride home, Juan’s mother jokes that this is the first time he’s ever missed church.

“ _It will also be the last._ ” she says, but the smile on her face seems to say that she’d be willing to make more allowances. 

He’s benched for the next couple of games, gets a few minutes in when he comes off the bench towards the end of maybe five or six matches in all. As things start to wind down as the summer transfer windows begin to open, Juan can’t help but hope he’ll maybe get to move somewhere that he’ll get playing time. Somewhere not too far from home, maybe even a smaller club, just to get on the pitch again.

In the weeks leading up, nothing concrete seems to come out. Rumors of clubs like Paris Saint-Germain and Bayern Munich expressing interest float around, but no offers are put down, no phone calls are made, and yet everyone remains optimistic.

“ _Even if you don’t move this window, you’ll definitely get more playing time next season,_ ” his older brother reasons. _“Offers have already been made on two other guys, they’ll need you to step up._ ” 

And he’s right, offers have been made on other people. Better players. Players who aren’t him. But that’s football; always changing, never constant, never predictable. And his family stays optimistic, because that’s them; always positive, always supporting, always unconditionally loving, even when the summer window is starting to close and Juan’s pretty sure he’s going to be spending another season on the bench at Etudiantes. 

Then Sergio, his agent, calls and his father does the same exact thing he does the night Etudiantes offered a professional contract. An English club wants him to sign a professional contract. Tottenham Hotspur, he says, echoing Sergio, trying to make the English name fit. They’re big, big deal. Finished second in their league this season. 

Cynically, Juan thinks, ‘but they didn’t finish first’. He wonders if he’ll just be sitting on the bench in England, where it’s colder, rainer, not nearly as pretty as home. 

“ _The manager is from Argentina_ ,” his mother says, later. “ _It’ll be like you have us there with you._ ” 

He flies out with Sergio to London in July to make negotiations with the club, and by August, Juan’s got a flat in London and he’s wearing his church clothes as he signs a five year professional contract and shakes hands with the manager, a man named Mauricio Pochettino, who smiles exactly like Juan’s grandfather.

Time goes by even faster. He’s training with the Tottenham first team, alongside players like Harry Kane, who he distinctly remembers seeing a headline about winning the PFA Young Player of the Year award and one of his little brothers’ friends had said that he was going to be greater than Ronaldo. Juan had laughed it off at the time, but he has to admit, Harry is good. To be fair, everyone at Tottenham is pretty good. The team is stronger than the Etudiantes youth academy team ever was, and there’s this unspoken agreement between them all. They’re all fighting for the same cause, there’s such a passion in each and every one of them, a friendly fire sparked between them all. It hardly feels like football anymore, it feels like family. 

And then Paulo Gazzaniga happens. 

Juan sees him at training a few times, just the back of his head or a flash of a training kit before he’s off with Hugo and Mich, standing in the goal as Tony gives them shot after shot to block, and passes him once or twice in the canteen, but he never gives him much thought. In the conversations he has with Coco on the bus to and from away games, it seems like he’s taken a bit of a shine to Paulo, mentioning that he had a girlfriend back in Southampton that he broke up with to come to Tottenham.

“ _That’s the spirit the gaffer’s looking for, dedication to the game above everything else. I bet he’ll be starting in goal soon, maybe even moving up to replace Mich as second choice._ ” 

Coco is borderline prophetic.

Hugo gets injured, Mich gets sick, and suddenly Paulo’s in goal and a Crystal Palace player has sent a perfectly on target shot right at him. Paulo deflects it and the crowd cheers, Juan among them as Paulo shouts at the back line about keeping it together. Something just clicks in Juan’s brain, and for the rest of the game, he can’t keep his eyes off of Paulo. They win, one-nil, and in the dressing room afterwards the spirits are high. Mauricio embraces Paulo in a warm hug and Coco slings his arm around Juan’s shoulders.

“ _Cheer up, Juanito!_ ” he says. “ _We’ve won!_ ” 

Juan cracks a little smile and Coco cheers like he’s just won the World Cup, and Juan can’t really help himself but his eyes just drift over to where Paulo’s sitting, a few spots over, shirt forgone, slung over his shoulder and hair falling in his face. He’s smiling, eyes bright under the fluorescent dressing room lights, and Sonny’s sitting next to him, taking a selfie. Everyone’s slapping Sonny on the back and Jan wanders over and photobombs them with a silly face. The dressing room feels alive, like some big, momentus thing is coming soon. Coco pinches Juan.

“ _You okay?_ ” he asks.

Juan nods. 

“ _You were just staring off into space, couldn’t even get your attention. Wanna come over later?_ ”

Juan nods again.

Coco grins. “ _Great. Do you ever talk?_ ”

Juan almost nods again, but catches himself. “ _Yeah, when I want to._ ” Coco laughs at that. 

Eventually, he gets comfortable. Dangerously so. The world keeps spinning and his life turns too, it turns into a new stadium and matches and the comfort of Coco’s jokes and nutmegging Winksy in training and Paulo’s deep, rumbling laughter, like thunder preceding a great big storm.

The storm, of course, is Paulo himself. He’s like home in London, and sure, Coco’s from the same place too, but there’s something about Paulo that reminds Juan of home. Around him, he feels safe, warm, like he’s at home while being thousands of miles away. One night, on the coach, he wonders if there’s an English word for the feeling. He’s sure doesn’t think there’s a Spanish word for one, but Winksy’s been kindly teaching him little bits of English that he needs sometimes for post match interviews or press statements or the odd Instagram caption here or there, so he leans over to his teammate and nudges his leg.

Winksy takes one of his earbuds out. “Yeah?” 

“I have a question, about English,” Juan says. He chews the inside of his cheek, trying to make the words come to him again, but in the right language.

“Shoot. I might be able to answer it.” 

“Is there a… A word for the feeling, when… Um… A person, they make you feel warm? Like in your… Uh…” Juan tries to gesture to his whole body and hopes Winksy interprets it the way he means it. Winksy makes a face, tips his head to one side, but he eventually seems to get it, and breaks into a big grin.

“Who’s the lucky lady, Juan?” he asks, smile stretching so far it shows all his teeth, eyes creasing.

Juan’s never been more lost in his entire life. “Um… What?” 

Winksy just smiles more. “It sounds like you’ve got a crush. Y’know, like, when someone makes you feel all warm and safe and such. That kinda nice, fuzzy feeling in your stomach when they’re around.”

Juan feels his heart hit the pit of his stomach and splinters into a thousand pieces. It’s so tangible and sharp that he thinks he might die for a second, he looks around as if anyone else would’ve heard the sound of shattering. “Oh it is… It’s not… I was just curious. Thanks.” 

Winksy looks confused again but doesn’t say any more, just shrugs and says you’re welcome and turns back to his music. 

The coach drops them off at the newly built stadium and Juan all but grabs his things and sprints off the coach, into his car, and just drives. He pulls over at a closed gas station when he gets a text from Coco, asking if he's planning on going to Hugo’s house with the rest of the team for a little impromptu celebration. Juan texts back that he's just going to go home and rest. 

He’s about to fall asleep by sheer willpower alone when a call from his mother comes in, and he realizes he hasn’t spoken to her in weeks. “ _Hello?_ ”

“ _Juanito, we miss you! Your cousin Ana is getting married in a few weeks, finally,_ ” Juan snorts. Ana’s only a year older than him, why the rush? “ _We wish you could be there, her husband is just lovely. And he loves football too, he was watching your club’s game today. Said everyone did spectacularly_.”

“ _Good for her. Tell her husband I say thank you._ ”

“ _I will! Speaking of weddings…_ ”

Juan sighs. “ _My focus is on football right now… I need to make the most of this opportunity in England_ .” 

“ _Very well. You have always been a smart boy, I know you will do what is right. The church misses you, Aunt Marie said things just aren’t the same without you. Get some rest._ ” His mother hangs up. He’s about to put his phone down and force himself to sleep again when he gets a text.

**From [Unknown Number]:** _Hello, Paulo here… Coco gave me yr number. Are u feeling ok? You looked a little out of it on the bus._

**To Paulo:** _Hi. I’m ok. Just a little tired._

**From Paulo:** _Okay :) see u at training bro_

Juan turns his phone off and flops onto his back. He can feel his heart beating so hard that it feels like he’s got an earthquake holed up in his chest, threatening to shatter his whole body like a little house in a violent storm. A long, long time ago, he accepted that football would always change. As a concept, as a sport, eventually federations and rules would fall out of time and be replaced by newer ones. But it was always separate from him. Football would change, football always changes, but he never thought he would change too. 

But the world keeps turning, so Juan tries to keep up. Poch has this overwhelming faith in him as a defender and starts having him work with Toby and Jan in training, saying that the older guys will really bring the full potential out in him as a centre-back. Toby and Jan are nice, Toby’s got a great sense of humor and is always pushing, trying to put Juan in the most difficult situations and see if he can still get out. Jan’s just as good, though a little less demanding. He tries to help Juan socialize, really get oriented at the club. He’s also friends with Paulo.

“You know, Paulo is from Argentina too,” he says, offhandedly as they’re running drills. “Must be nice, yeah? I know Toby appreciates me a lot.”

Toby snorts and rolls his eyes, flicking a ball at Jan. It bounces off of his leg harmlessly and rolls towards Juan.

“I have not talked to him much.” Juan says, quietly. 

“You should. It’s always good for the defenders and keepers to know each other well,” Jan says.

Toby mutters, “You would know about that.” with a little smile. Jan flicks a ball at him and misses, accidentally scaring Mich. He shoots him an apologetic smile. Paulo looks over in their direction and flashes Jan a big smile before Tony starts shouting at them again. 

The rest of the season continues and they finish high enough that they’re put on the bracket for the Champions League. Juan’s benched for the first five games in the group stage, but Poch starts him against their second game facing APOEL. In the dressing room, Paulo makes his way over, slaps Juan on the back with a grin. He’s benched for the game, with Hugo out, Poch had elected to put Mich in goal.

Juan feels like he might throw up as they line up in the tunnel, breath shaking in his lungs as he tries to keep it together. Dele puts a hand on his shoulder and gives him a little smile, mouthing ‘you’ll do great’ before they start walking out, mascots in hand. The Champions League anthem is deafening, so loud that it feels like it’s shaking his brain in his skull. There’s cameras everywhere, reporters standing or kneeling along the pitch, lenses at the ready, heat of the stadium lights burning the back of his neck and shoulders. It feels as if he’s carrying the sun, weighted and hot on his back. 

They win, three-nil, the opposition not even getting anywhere near the goal. Juan can’t even remember bits of the game, finding he was so focused on just not passing out the entire time. Coco gives him a ride home, they banter in the car.

“ _Hey_ ,” he says just as Juan is getting out of the car. “ _Dele’s having a New Year’s party in a few weeks. You coming?_ ”

Juan shrugs. “ _I’ll think about it_.”

Coco laughs, throws Juan his water bottle, which he’d abandoned in the front seat cup holder, and says goodnight before driving off. Juan collapses as soon as he gets inside, falling asleep on the couch. 

Weeks of incessant phone calls land Juan in Coco’s car once again, en route to Dele’s house for his New Year’s party. With no upcoming matches and a text from Poch that says “enjoy yourselves :)”, Juan can instantly tell that everyone’s feeling a little less restrained. Dele’s broken out almost every type of alcohol imaginable - including a frosty glass bottle with the word ‘vodquila’ printed on it that Coco is eyeing - as well as enough food to probably feed a small country. Coco drags Juan to one of the couches, where Paulo, Jan, and Winksy are already sitting. Juan resists the urge to immediately turn around and hide somewhere as the familiar warm, fuzzy feeling climbs up his stomach and towards his heart as soon as he sees Paulo and his wide smile and stupidly blue eyes. 

“Ah, Coco! How’ve you been?” Jan says as they sit down.

Coco shrugs. “Alright. Trying to keep in shape over the break, you know, usual things.” 

Winksy slides off of Jan’s lap to move to perch on the arm of the couch and sit closer to Juan, wincing a little as he sits. He’s nursing a beer, and offers Juan his second one. 

“No, thank you. I don’t drink.” Juan says, politely.

Winksy laughs at that. “You’re at the wrong party then, mate. How’re you?”

“Okay. Tired. Are you okay? You look… Um… Hurt when you sit down.” Juan asks. Winksy blushes, face and neck pinking as he suddenly takes a great interest in his beer.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine, it’s nothing.” 

“You are not… Injured, right?” Winksy flushes an even brighter pink, bites down on his lower lip.

“It’s nothing, I just bruised my, erm, my hip yesterday. Cooking and that.”

Juan nods, staring at his hands, trying to think of something else to say, when Coco leans over and asks if he wants anything to drink. He shakes his head and Coco turns to Paulo and asks the same question. Paulo asks Coco to get him a whiskey, Jan denies another drink, saying that he’s off to find a bathroom. A few minutes later, Winksy gets up, saying he’s going to say hi to Dele, and leaving Juan awkwardly sitting right up against Paulo on an otherwise empty couch. 

“ _Coco says you’re from La Plata,_ ” Paulo says, looking over at him. “ _How’re you finding London? Honestly, I think it’s kind of dull compared to home_.”

Juan shrugs, staring at his lap. “ _It’s nice. The sunsets are prettier at home_.” 

Paulo laughs at that, deep and thunderous and Juan feels just the slightest bit lightheaded, like he needs to lay down or at least rest his head on something. Like Paulo’s shoulder. Which looks extremely comfortable. He’s snapped out of it by Coco arriving with Paulo’s whiskey and a beer for himself in tow, sitting himself on Juan’s other side.

“ _Good to see you guys are getting along,_ ” he says, smiling. “ _The boss was worried you didn’t like each other_.” 

Paulo laughs again. “ _How could I dislike this guy?_ ” he replies, draping his arm over Juan’s shoulders. Juan resists the urge to lean into his touch, to drop his head on Paulo’s shoulder and throw his legs over his lap. Instead, he gets up, suddenly.

“ _I, uh… Do you know where Dele’s bathroom is?_ ” he asks, directing the question at Coco.

“ _I saw Jan go upstairs when he went to the bathroom, maybe try there_.” Paulo offers. Juan speedily walks away, taking the stairs two at the time and finding himself in the expansive upstairs of Dele’s house. There’s a door that has a piece of paper taped on it reading ‘BATHROOM, please vomit only in the toilet. x Dele’. Juan tries the doorknob and the door opens. He locks the door and takes a couple deep breaths. 

_Get it together_ , he thinks. _You’re probably weirding Paulo out. Stop whatever you’ve got going on up there because you need to just act_ **_normal_ ** _._

The worst part, he’s pretty sure, is that he has zero control over it all. He doesn’t know what the feeling is or why it is, he certainly didn’t chose to feel all soft and warm and stupid around Paulo it just kind of _happened_. Part of Juan feels like crying, he’s at a party with a team en route to possibly qualify for the UEFA Champions League quarter final and all he can think about is how much he wants to curl up into a ball and call his mother and ask her what the actual fuck is going on with his brain. 

“ _Hello? Juan?_ ” Coco shouts through the door. “ _You okay in there? Dele’s trying to get a game of truth or dare going._ ”

“ _I’m fine, I’ll be out in a second_.” Juan replies. He splashes some cold water on his face and tries to just remember how to act normal around people and then heads downstairs, where Dele has corralled the entire team - many of whom looking a little worse for wear and not holding their liquor very well - in his living room. A couple people are sitting on the floor while almost everyone else is on a chair or couch. Juan scouts out a chair a safe distance from Paulo and quietly takes a seat as Dele turns to Toby.

“Truth or dare, big man?” he asks.

Toby makes a face. “Do I have to let you do it?” 

Dele flips him off.

“Truth.” 

A few people groan at his answer, including Dele.

“Who’s the hottest person in the squad?”

Toby surveys the circle for a second before turning back to Dele. “Me, obviously.” 

This time, everyone groans. Dele makes a face as Toby turns to Winksy, who also picks truth, eliciting more groans.

As the game progresses, Winksy admits that he’s had sex in the locker room, Ben gives Toby a lapdance, and Sonny does two shots of vodquila to get out of naming which of his teammates he would voluntarily sleep with. Juan’s mostly spared, as all of his truths have been given to him by Winksy, who’s equally too out of it and too sweet to really try to embarrass him. Until Dele leans over and gives him an idea with one of his little devil smirks.

“Okay… Fuck, marry, kill… Paulo, Coco, and Poch.” Winksy says, grinning. Dele’s practically rolling on the floor and Juan wants to pass out or hide in a corner but everyone’s staring at him, dozens of eyes just waiting for an answer.

He blushes as he stutters out an answer. “Um… Marry Coco, fuck Paulo, and… Kill Poch?” and, still flushed, turns to Ben.

“Truth or dare?”

The game continues, the truths getting more and more outrageous and the dares getting predictably sexual. At some point, Jan turns to Paulo and asks “truth or dare?” and Paulo says _dare_ , eliciting a lot of excitement from the mostly drunk - sans Juan, who is completely dry, and Sonny, who’s only a little tipsy - crowd. Jan picks up an empty beer bottle from the coffee table.

“I’m gonna spin this bottle, and whoever it lands on, you have to do a body shot off of.” Jan explains, waving the bottle back and forth. Everyone laughs, and Paulo rolls his eyes, nodding. Jan leans across the table and places the bottle in the middle of the circle, flicking it so it spins. Everyone starts cheering and Juan feels like he’s about to throw up as the bottle starts to slow down as it makes a third, fourth turn and is suddenly facing him. For a split second, he dares to look over at Paulo, who raises the corner of his mouth as if to say, it is what it is. But the insidious knot in Juan’s stomach won’t go away, and gets even tighter as Jan comes back from the kitchen with a plastic shot glass full of tequila, a lime wedge, and a little ramekin of salt.

He hands all three of the items to Paulo, and then turns to the rest of the group. “I almost forgot to mention… Paulo won’t be licking the salt off of Juan’s neck.”

Juan thinks he might actually throw up or pass out or both.

“He’ll be licking it off of his thigh.” 

“The salt isn’t going to stick to his jeans, though.” Toby calls out, and Jan turns to Juan with an extremely apologetic look, before turning back to everyone else.

“Then they’ll just have to come off, I suppose.” 

He numbly complies, kicking off his jeans and handing them to Winksy, who is smiling in a sweet, apologetic fashion, and who folds them neatly and places them in his lap. Juan sits back down and Winksy nudges him.

“You’re gonna have t’ lay down, mate.” He nods, and un-crosses his legs, leaning back onto his elbows and dropping his head back, praying Paulo will make it quick and laugh it off and praying that he also won’t get a boner, because apparently Paulo has that effect on him even though Juan is pretty sure he’s not all that into dudes. Everyone starts cheering as Paulo scoots over to Juan. He places a warm hand on the center of his chest.

“ _You have to lie down all the way, Juanito_ .” he says, softly, and Juan complies, all but buckling as Paulo pushes his shirt halfway up his chest and very, very carefully places the shot glass. Juan freezes as Paulo hovers over him and taps the lime against his lips. He places the lime in his mouth and Juan resists the urge to spit the lime out and kiss him right then and there because he is _not_ into men and certainly is _not_ into Paulo fucking Gazzaniga, and then Paulo’s gone, heat trailing down his body as Paulo nudges his thighs apart and Juan complies, feeling absolutely numb and on fire at the same time. He squeezes his eyes shut as Paulo kneels between his legs and leans down, tongue slowly dragging a hot, wet line up his thigh inner thigh and Juan’s never been more thankful for having a chunk of lime in his mouth because he’s pretty sure he whimpers when Paulo leans back to set the salt. 

He’s absolutely mortified and also horrifically aroused as Paulo ducks his head again to suck the salt off of his thigh, and he almost tries to squirm away but then one of Paulo’s hands is wrapped around his thigh, fingers digging in, keeping him still and he prays he won’t make this any more embarrassing for himself even though he kind of has a boner and maybe moaned a little bit when Paulo grabbed his thigh.

There’s a bit of salt that falls lower and Paulo chases it. Juan bites down hard on the skin of the lime so he doesn’t moan out loud. Every single sound and feeling is heightened by a thousand and Paulo doesn’t remove his hand from Juan’s thigh as he raises himself up to take the shot, bright blue eyes locking with his for a moment and Juan physically shivers. Paulo tightens his hand again as he spits out the shot glass, which bounces across the carpet of Dele’s living room with a few soft thuds. 

And then Paulo’s hovering right over his face again, looking straight into his eyes, and Juan prays that he can’t tell how equally scared and turned on he is just by looking at him, but then everything goes blank as Paulo leans in and he’s clearly trying to just get the lime but his lips keep brushing against Juan’s and he feels like he can’t breathe, can’t see, can’t hear, every sense is just overwhelmed by _PauloPauloPauloPauloPaulo_ and he’s pushing him away, a firm hand on his chest and Paulo retracts, looks hurt for a second but Juan doesn’t quite catch it, just spits the lime out and starts taking deep breaths, borderline dry heaving and then Paulo’s all over him again, asking if he’s okay and mumbling apologies mixed with curses in Spanish as he tries to help Juan sit up. Winksy hands him his jeans and Juan tries to stand up, but Paulo’s kind of still all over him and so Paulo takes that as his cue to help Juan stand and to walk him to a bathroom so he can put his pants back on in private. Jan starts throwing condoms at them but Paulo shuts him down with a glare as he carefully leads Juan away, and Juan doesn’t even realize until he’s standing alone in the bathroom that he’s been crying. 

“ _Juanito? Are you okay?_ ” Paulo asks. Juan doesn’t trust his voice to say yes or no but Paulo can’t see him so he just bites down on his lip, hard, trying to muffle his sobs as best he can.

“ _Juan? Please, I just want to know that you’re- fuck it, I’m coming in_.” 

Before Juan can push the door back or tell Paulo he’s fine or that he doesn’t really want to talk to him right now, Paulo’s pushing the door open and Juan does his best to wipe away his tears but he can’t stop crying. Paulo’s face crumples and he kicks the door shut behind himself, pulling Juan into a tight, warm hug, and he feels so safe and comforted and _loved_ , and fuck, the realization just makes Juan cry harder. 

“ _I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable… I thought it was just jokes. I should’ve realized you were uncomfortable and told Jan to spin again. I’m really, really sorry Juanito._ ” he says, and he’s so damn earnest that it makes Juan’s heart ache and he just stands there, in his teammate’s bathroom, pantless, while his other teammate that he’s fucking in love with hugs him and strokes his hair and whispers apologies and sweet words in his ear like a lover. His stomach lurches at the thought, and he pulls away, pushes away, tries to put some distance between himself and Paulo because there’s no fucking way, not in a million years, he is not in love with a teammate and he never will be because he does _not_ love or even like men, and he especially does not fucking love Paulo Dino Gazzaniga. 

Ignoring how hurt Paulo looks, Juan takes a few steps back

“ _Can you please just leave?_ ” he asks, voice cracking.

“ _Yes, yes, of course, yeah._ ” Paulo says, and then he’s gone, and Juan feels like crying some more but he’s determined to do it in the privacy of his own home, so he puts his jeans back on and calls an Uber from Dele’s bathroom and then sneaks out the door through the kitchen. He texts Dele to let him know that he felt a little sick and that’s why he and Paulo made the emergency rush to the bathroom, enjoyed the party, and thanked him for hosting. 

The Uber driver is an old woman who takes one look at Juan and sighs, softly. She reminds him of his mother, in the way that just makes his heart ache even more.

“Address?” she asks, fingers tapping on the steering wheel along to the melody of the soft acoustic guitar that filters through the speakers of her car. Juan gives her his address, voice cracking only a little as he speaks. He clears his throat and repeats himself. 

“Rough night, huh?” she says as she drives. “This your girlfriend’s house?” she gestures to Dele’s house as she pulls out of the back driveway.

“Um… No.” Juan replies, quietly.

“Oh, ex-girlfriend?” 

“No.”

“Boyfriend, then? Ex-boyfriend?” something about the casualty which she says it makes Juan’s stomach flip. 

“Men, being together… Is it common, here?” he asks.

“Yeah, my grandson’s got a boyfriend. They’re just the cutest, so earnest with each other… Young love, beautiful, isn’t it?” she sighs again, contented this time, smiling in the rearview mirror. Juan nods a little, tries to push down the bile threatening to rise in his throat as the knot in his stomach grows and grows. 

The woman keeps talking, about her family and how she misses her son, who never calls. About how her grandson reminds her of her son, who was also gay, who she turned out and regrets every moment of. Juan tunes most of it out, head and heart aching from it all. A block from his house, he asks her to drop him off. 

“Thank you, señora.” he says, carefully getting out of the car and onto wobbly feet. He tries not to think about her stories, the pain in her voice when she spoke of her lost son, roaming the world without a mother or father who he thinks loves him when she’d really be willing to give everything up for him again.

_But I made my mistake_ , she had said. _I admit that now, y’know. I should’ve never kicked that boy to the kerb. He was mine, my flesh and blood, and I just… Over something as beautiful as_ **_love_ ** _._

Juan slams the front door of his flat, slides down, back against the door, and just cries and cries and cries, until his body is so exhausted that he falls asleep there, on the floor. 

He wakes up in his bed, jeans swapped for joggers, jacket hung up neatly in his closet, and shoes tucked away somewhere not in his bed. Sleepily, he rolls over, content on believing that he sleepdressed himself and then sleepwalked himself to his bed. But then he spies a little piece of paper near the bed and there’s a painting on the wall across from him that certainly does _not_ belong to him, and the bed is way too big to be his, and - holy shit, he thinks, this is not my house, these are not my clothes, _where the hell am I?_ He rolls over and grabs the paper. In neat, thin lines, there’s a little note.

‘ _Hi Juanito,_ ’ it reads. ‘ _I’m sorry for probably freaking you out this morning, but I was so worried that I asked Coco to check on you when Dele said you had gone home feeling sick, and he picked you up and brought you to my house. Please don’t be mad at me, I just needed to know that you were o.k._

_There’s money in your jacket, which is hung on the door, and your shoes are next to the bed. I put your jeans in the wash, but you are welcome to keep the sweatpants. You can get a cab with the money if you don’t want to talk to me. I’m going on a run, but if you stay around, I want to talk to you and properly apologize._

_x Paulo_ ’

Juan feels his heart leap in his throat at the note, at the kindness just bleeding out of the ink on the paper, how sweet and caring Paulo is and the tenderness of it makes his heart ache, but he forces it down. He makes the mistake of looking over at the bedside table and there’s a picture of Paulo and his dog and he realizes he’s in Paulo’s bed and he feels lightheaded again, like he’s going to pass out. He throws his jacket on and fumbles around with his shoes, speeding through the house and then he runs smack into a wall. Except the wall happens to be Paulo, who is looking rather stunned, and is very, very shirtless. Juan makes a vaguely distraught noise and tries to push past him, but Paulo’s much bigger and much stronger and he grabs his wrist, eyes pleading with him to just talk for a minute. 

So Juan relents, letting Paulo lead him to the kitchen and sit him down at the island standing in the middle of the kitchen. He still hasn’t put a shirt on, and Juan isn’t exactly sure where to look, so he kind of just awkwardly eyes the magnetic knife holder that Paulo has above his stove, and then realizes it’s kind of weird that he’s staring at the knives so he looks at the fridge, but it’s partially blocked by Paulo’s extremely distracting eyes and so he just settles on looking down, at his hands, because at least he can’t embarrass himself that way. 

“ _I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable last night,_ ” Paulo starts. “ _I… It just seemed like it was supposed to be funny. But you clearly didn’t - don’t - think it’s funny. If you’re upset with me, I understand, but I hope we can still be civil with each other at least._ ” 

There’s this strange little wavering in his voice, like it might break any second, and Juan is hit with the full realization of just _how much_ Paulo cares about him. 

“ _It’s fine. I’m fine_.” he insists, but Paulo just shakes his head.

“ _You won’t even look at me and I… I just want to know that we’re going to be okay_.” Juan wants to reach across the island and smash his mouth against Paulo’s even though he knows he shouldn’t want that, and he physically recoils, like he’s being berated by himself for even thinking of such a thing.

“ _Paulo. It’s fine._ ” he repeats, and Paulo makes a little frustrated noise that Juan almost laughs at because it’s so _cute_ , which is definitely not a word the average person would use to describe Paulo.

Dangerous? Yes. Terrifying? Yes. Devastatingly handsome? Yes. But cute? Probably not. 

“ _Juan. I saw you flinch. Don’t lie to me, please, just tell me if I’m the one upsetting you or if it’s something else_ .” he chances a quick glance and practically melts everywhere because Paulo’s eyes, they’re so earnest and pleading and _blue_ , like an endless sky and Juan has to tear his eyes away and back to his hands so he doesn’t do something extremely stupid.

“ _It’s. Fine. It’s not you._ ” he says, through gritted teeth, hands clenching. 

Paulo sighs. “ _What is it then?_ ” 

Juan wants to scream, wants to shake Paulo by the shoulders and kiss him and punch him all at the same time. 

“ _Juan_ ,” Paulo says. “ _What’s bothering you? Something clearly is._ ” 

He doesn’t look up, just sits there, silently, eyes trained on his lap, when Paulo reaches across the island and cups Juan’s jaw with one of his hands and raises his head, forces him to look into his eyes and every bit of Juan’s body is screaming at him to resist, to push away, to escape, but he just melts, complies with Paulo’s touch like a rag doll, too frozen to do anything else. 

“ _Just tell me, what’s wrong?_ ” his voice is barely above a whisper, careful and wavering, and Juan bites the inside of his cheek and then his tongue and then he lunges forward, fists a hand in Paulo’s hair and slams their lips together. It’s hardly a kiss, even as Paulo’s hands find the hem of Juan’s shirt and he begins to reciprocate, kissing him back with just as much fervor and intensity like he’s been holding back too.

And then the warm, honey spell is broken and Juan realizes what he’s doing and he pulls away, breaks Paulo’s grip out of sheer surprise and flees, runs out the door, shirt still rumpled from where Paulo was holding it and breath fully kissed away as he positively tears down the street, only stopping when his legs burn and there’s a fire threatening to ignite his whole chest, starting with his lungs. He hails a cab and hops in. The driver fixes him with a bit of a suspicious look.

“That was quite the pace you were working there, son.” the driver says as Juan closes the car door, still breathless.

“Was in a hurry.” he replies. The driver howls at that. 

“I like that. Where to?” 

He arrives home for a second time, pays the driver and tips extra with the money Paulo stashed in his jacket, and is just about to crash on the couch when he gets a call from Coco.

“ _Juan, I swear to fucking- if you’re not at home right now I’m going to call the police. Nobody’s been able to get a hold of you for the past couple of hours, where have you been?_ ” Coco says, sounding equally annoyed and distressed.

“ _I’ve been busy_.” Juan says, shortly.

Coco makes a miffed noise, and then continues his lecture. “ _Busy? Okay, well, just don’t fucking disappear like that again because I swear to god I’ll break your legs, Champions League chances be damned, you gave me and the gaffer a damn good scare._ ” 

“ _Sorry, you told Poch I wasn’t returning your calls and freaked him out over it?_ ”

“ _He actually freaked himself out plenty after I told him. Apparently your mom’s been calling you too. You should probably call her back and stop fuckin’ disappearing._ ” feeling properly vindicated, Coco hangs up with an indignant huff. Juan’s stomach lurches at the thought of talking to his mother right now, after he’d… His stomach lurches again.

His parents were never explicitly homophobic, but there were subtler things. They made faces at men holding hands in public or two women kissing, would turn him and his siblings away and drive them out of the room if there was so much as a mention of a gay person on television. Any songs that were homoeroticized were banned from the house, if a musician came out, their songs couldn’t be listened to. 

When he was fifteen, Juan remembers going to church with his parents and one of their friends asked for some prayers because her daughter was moving out to live with her _wife_ , a woman she’d met in school and had run off with to marry in America without so much as a good-bye. He remembers his mother holding a hand over her heart and bowing her head in sorrow, and his father telling their friend he was sorry for her loss, like her daughter had died. And then, in the car back home, they spoke of how hard it must’ve been for their friend, how it would just be impossible for even the unconditional love of a mother to not at the very least falter at the knowledge that their child was doomed to eternal damnation.

“ _It is just… You cannot think of them, see them, hug them, love them the same way, knowing they are desecrated like that…_ ” his mother had whispered, shaking her head. “ _The poor mother and father_.”

And Juan had tried to push away the memory of the dream he’d had the night before, where he sat in a starlit forest thousands and thousands of miles from home with a faceless boy and kissed him until the sun rose and his mother burst in, waking him up for church. 

He pushes his phone away and curls up on the couch, stomach turning and tears burning at the backs of his eyes. He had always told himself that the dreams, the lingering looks, they meant nothing, that he would always be a lovable son, a good son, a perfect son to his parents, that nothing could change that. That their love was unconditional, unwavering, something that could never be taken away. 

And then Paulo Gazzaniga happened, and he realized, fully, that his parents' love was conditional. It always has been, he thinks. 

His head throbs, as does his heart.

They lose to Juventus, and Juan’s parents call and call and call, and every call goes unanswered because every time his finger hovers over the green ‘accept call’ button, he thinks of the way he kissed Paulo in his kitchen and the heady heat he’d felt when Paulo had licked his thigh, and he can’t bring himself to face his mother’s comforting words or his father’s pity. Not when he knows that they wouldn’t even bother picking up the phone and dialing if they knew, not when he knows for certain that their love is absolutely conditional. And the knowledge hurts him, drives him crazy, makes him wonder. Is the brotherhood that his teammates share conditional too? What about the faith and compassion Poch has for him?

Juan finds it royally fucked up how something as beautiful and sought after as love can absolutely wreck a person. 

Aside from his parents, he avoids Paulo too, who’s blowing up his phone probably twice as much as Juan’s mother is. Every ounce of his being wants to pick up every time, just to hear his voice, even if he’s furious and shouting at Juan that he never wants to see him ever again because he’s a disgusting human being, even though he knows deep down that Paulo would never be able to do such a thing because he just cares too much. He’s too kind and too sweet and too patient and, fuck, he doesn’t deserve his friendship at all. And if he loved him - **_if_ **\- he’s pretty damn sure he wouldn’t, doesn’t, deserve that either. 

But there’s only so much distance Juan can keep between himself and Paulo before there’s a loud, firm knock on the door and some soft Spanish coming through that he immediately recognizes as Paulo’s voice. 

“ _Juanito?_ ” 

“ _Paulo, not right now._ ” 

“ _Juan. Please. I miss you so much, just let me talk to you for a minute._ ”

“ _I’m serious, go away._ ” and Paulo does. He sighs and Juan can hear fading footsteps, and he desperately wants to fling the door open and chase after Paulo and do something stupid like make out with him in the hallway of the apartment building, but he lets him go, for now.

But Paulo returns. Day after day, at the same exact time, and Juan finally relents, after a whole week, and Paulo’s reddened eyes crush his heart as he enters the flat with a sad, dopey smile. 

“ _Missed you_ .” he says. “ _You have no idea, Juanito, how much I missed you._ ”

Juan bites down on his tongue, hard, to stop every confession and profession of love he knows from coming up from his lungs and spilling out of his mouth and driving Paulo away forever. He just nods, and looks down, and Paulo pulls him into a warm, silent hug, stroking his hair and mumbling nothingness.

“ _I love you_.” Juan mumbles into his sweatshirt, too quiet and muffled by the thick fabric to be heard by anyone but himself, but it feels like a sin and a weight off his shoulders at the same time. He never understood why people put such an importance on three words - they’re just words, sounds that you put together to be interpreted by other people - but now he thinks he might be starting to understand. He tries to push away from Paulo, needing space but not really wanting it, but Paulo doesn’t let go, just pulling him in closer with a mumbled, broken sentence and Juan looks up and realizes that Paulo’s crying.

“ _Are you… What is wrong?_ ” he asks, softly, and Paulo smiles.

“ _I’m so happy with you,_ ” he replies. “ _And I have no fucking idea why. But you just make me this inexplicable kind of happy, like I would run off a cliff for you._ ” 

Juan’s heart feels fit to burst, beating so hard he’s pretty sure the entire floor of the building can feel it.

“ _It’s love, my dear_ ,” he says. “ _And I love you too._ ”

Paulo smiles impossibly bigger, leans in, noses brushing. He raises his eyebrows in a silent question and Juan answers by pulling him down by the strings of his hoodie and kissing him, softly. 

There is love in the world that is conditional, he is sure of it. But for the moments like this, the soft, unbreakable ones that escape every word available and can only be felt, moments where the love is palpable and unconditional, Juan is willing to sacrifice every bit of conditional love in his life for it, no matter how old or how close to his heart. 

**Author's Note:**

> nooooooooooooooootes
> 
> \- juan made his debut for etudiantes (where he did his academy training) [against Patronato in a 1-0 game in march](http://outsideoftheboot.com/2017/07/29/scout-report-juan-foyth-estudiantes-ball-playing-defender/)  
> \- paulo was [at southampton before he came to spurs just over a month before juan came to spurs](https://www.bbc.co.uk/sport/0/football/18921908) from etudiantes  
> -idk if paulo was dating a girl in southampton but shhhhhhhh  
> \- juan didn't play in any of the 2017/2018 ucl games except for the one [against APOEL](https://www.uefa.com/uefachampionsleague/match/2021682--tottenham-vs-apoel/) where we beat them 3-0  
> \- paulo didn't play in any of the 2017/2018 ucl games :( but he did make his debut [for spurs against crystal palace where hugo was injured and mich was sick](http://www.espn.co.uk/football/report?gameId=480800)
> 
> thanks for reading folks :D comment and leave kudos if it strikes your fancy  
> [here's somewhere to support my writing in other ways!](https://ko-fi.com/toady)


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